


Sherlock-the-Pooh

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Winnie-the-Pooh - A. A. Milne
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock likes a game of some sort when he comes upstairs, and sometimes he likes to sit quietly in front of the fire and listen to a story. This evening—</p><p>“What about a story?” said Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We are Introduced to Sherlock-the-Pooh and Some Bees, and the Stories Begin

**Author's Note:**

> ... yeah, I'm not sure where this came from, either. It's been wonderfully fun to write, though. The vast majority of credit for all of this goes to A.A. Milne. Obviously.
> 
> Illustrations by the incomparable [livia_carica](livia_carica.tumblr.com) (link to tumblr), who is a proper genius.

Here is Sherlock, coming upstairs now, bump, bump, bump, up the seventeen steps. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of getting upstairs, but sometimes he supposes it terribly inefficient, climbing the same seventeen steps every night. He could probably work out a better way, he thinks, if only he had some time to think of it. Maybe he could go home to somewhere else, without steps. Yes; that might be better.

I’m waiting for him on the first floor. He hangs up his coat and smiles at me, and then he feels that perhaps it wouldn’t be better at all.

Anyhow, here he is at the top, and ready to be introduced to you.

Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sometimes Sherlock likes a game of some sort when he comes upstairs, and sometimes he likes to sit quietly in front of the fire and listen to a story. This evening—

“What about a story?” said Sherlock.

“ _What_ about a story?” I asked.

He pulls an envelope from beneath the stack of post on the sidetable. “‘Sherlock-the-Pooh,’” he reads. “The blog was bad enough, but a children’s book? Really, John?“

I shrug. I’d always known he’d find the proofs sooner or later.

“I was contacted by an agent,” I say. “She’d read my blog.”

“Your _blog_.” He rolls his eyes. He always professes annoyance, but he always reads it. Sherlock most likes stories about himself. Because he’s that sort of consulting detective.

“He’s a consulting detective. And you named him after me. Very subtle, John.”

“You know who I named him after,” I tell him.

(I’d found the photograph tucked into the back of one of his old schoolbooks; Sherlock, as a boy, half asleep on the sofa, holding a bedraggled stuffed bear.

When Sherlock first told me his name, I said, as you’re going to say, “But that’s _your_ name.”

It is somehow entirely unsurprising that Sherlock would name his stuffed animals after himself.

“Problem? And not exactly. He’s Sherlock-ther-Pooh. Don’t you know what ‘ther’ means?”

“Ah, yes, now I do,” I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get.)

Sherlock just narrows his eyes at me. “You’re mocking me.”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. “Fine, then. Tell me the story of Sherlock-the-Pooh.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

So I tried.

* * *

Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, Sherlock-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Baker Street.

( _"'Under the name,' John? In a forest?”_

_“It means he had the name over the door in gold letters, and lived under it. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”_

_“Now I do,” said a growly voice._

_“Then I will go on,” said I.)_

One day when he was out walking, he came to an open place in the middle of the forest, and in the middle of the place was a large oak-tree, and, from the top of the tree, there came a loud buzzing-noise.

Sherlock-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his hands and began to think.

First of all he said to himself: “That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that _I_ know of is because you’re a bee.”

Then he thought for another long time, and said: “And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey.”

And then he got up, and said: “And the only reason for making honey is so that _I_ can eat it.” So he began to climb the tree.

( _”John, don’t be insulting,” Sherlock said. “I can think of a great many more uses for honey.”_

_“Oh?”_

_His mouth quirked up into a smile._

_“Oh,” I said. “I’m sure you can.”_ )

He climbed and he climbed and he climbed, and as he climbed he sang a little song to himself. It went like this:

> Isn’t it funny  
> How a bear likes honey?  
> Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!  
> I wonder why he does?

( _”For tea,” Sherlock said._

_“What?”_

_“It’s also for tea. I’d… put it in your tea.”_

_“Make a lot of tea, then, does he? Sherlock-the-Pooh?”_

_Sherlock steepled his fingers and sighed._

_“I’d like to keep telling this story for a long time,” I said, “so it would be lovely of you to make me some tea.”_

_“With honey?”_

_“Of course.”_ )

Then he climbed a little further… and a little further… and then just a little further. By that time he had thought of another song.

> It’s a very funny thought that, if Bears were Bees,  
> They’d build their nests at the _bottom_ of trees.  
>  And that being so (if the Bees were Bears),  
> We shouldn’t have to climb up all these stairs.

He was getting rather tired by this time, so that is why he sang a Complaining Song. He was nearly there now, and if he just stood on that branch….

_Crack!_

“Inconvenient,” said Sherlock, as he dropped ten feet onto the branch below him.

“Well, it seems—“ he said, as he bounced twenty feet onto the next branch.

“Obviously, what I _meant_ to do,” he explained, as he turned head-over-heels, and crashed on to another branch thirty feet below, “what I _intended_ —“

“Of course, it _was_ rather—“ he admitted, as he slithered very quickly through the next six branches.

“And all for a little honey. This,” he declared, as he said goodbye to the last branch, spun round three times, and flew gracefully into a gorse-bush, “is why I never eat on a case.”

He crawled out of the gorse-bush, brushed the prickles from his hair, and began to think again.

( _”’Began to think again’? Come now, John.”_

 _I just smiled at him._ )

And the first person he thought of was Mycroft Robin.

( _”John. Now you’re just being absurd.”_

_“Oh, like you’ve never called him when you were in trouble.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and a faint blush bloomed up his throat._

_“I’ve called him when **you**_ _were in trouble,” he said at last, whereupon I fear my face may have got a bit pink, too._ )

So Sherlock-the-Pooh went round to his friend Mycroft Robin—

(“ _Friend?”_

_“Enemy, then,” I said._

_“Arch-enemy,” he added darkly._ )

So Sherlock-the-Pooh went round to Mycroft Robin, who lived behind a green door in another part of the forest.

“Good morning, Mycroft Robin,” he said.

“Good morning, Sherlock- _ther_ -Pooh,” he replied.

“I wonder if you’ve got such a thing as a balloon about you?”

“A balloon?”

“Yes, I just said to myself coming along, ‘I wonder if Mycroft Robin has such a thing as a balloon about him?’ Just as a curiosity, mind.”

“And what possible use could a Consulting Detective have for a balloon?” he asked.

( _”You’d be surprised,” he muttered._

 _“I really wouldn’t.”_ )

Sherlock-the-Pooh looked round to see that nobody was listening, put his hand to his mouth, and said in a low whisper: “ _Honey!_ ”

“One cannot procure honey by means of a balloon!”

“You perhaps cannot. _I_ , however, have devised a method—“

( _”Bloody Mycroft,” Sherlock said to himself. “Always underestimating me.”_ )

Mycroft Robin was about to send Sherlock-the-Pooh away, when he noticed two balloons—a green one and a blue one—on his kitchen table.

“Owl,” he said, “is worth her weight in gold. Which one would you like?”

Sherlock-the-Pooh scrubbed his hands through his hair and thought very carefully.

“As I’ve deduced,” he said, “the application is as follows. When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is not to let the bees know you’re coming. Now, if you have a green balloon, they might think you were only part of the tree, and not notice you, and if you have a blue balloon, they might think you were only part of the sky, and not notice you, so the question remains: If one were to eliminate the impossible, which condition seems most likely to persuade?”

“You’re supposing the bees wouldn’t notice you underneath the balloon,” Mycroft Robin said.

“I can’t make predictions with insufficient data,” said Sherlock-the-Pooh. “You can never tell with bees.” He thought for a moment and said, “I shall try to look like a small black cloud. That will deceive them.”

“Then logically you’ll want to take the blue balloon,” Mycroft Robin said, regarding the handle of his umbrella.

“ _Obviously_.”

And so it was decided.

Well, they both went out with the blue balloon, and Sherlock-the-Pooh went to a very muddy place that he knew of, and rolled and rolled until he was black all over; and then, when the balloon was blown up as big as big, and both Mycroft Robin and Sherlock were holding onto the string, Mycroft Robin let go suddenly, and Sherlock-the-Pooh floated gracefully up into the sky, and stayed there—level with the top of the tree and about twenty feet from it.

( _”John. Surely you’re aware that the buoyancy properties of carbon dioxide—“_

 _“It’s my story. It’s about a talking bear. Drink your tea.”_ )

“Well done!” Mycroft Robin shouted.

“Meretricious,” replied Sherlock-the-Pooh. “How convincing is my disguise?”

“You look precisely like a Consulting Detective holding onto a balloon,” Mycroft Robin said.

“Not—“ said Sherlock-the-Pooh anxiously, “—not like a small black cloud in a blue sky?”

“Not very much.”

“I’m quite adept at disguises,” Sherlock said confidently. “Perhaps from up here, the deception is more convincing. You never can tell with bees.”

There was no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn’t quite reach the honey.

( _”Which, come to think of it,” I said to Sherlock, “is precisely what happened last night. Although then you just had me get it for you.”_

 _“I was busy,” Sherlock growled._ )

Mycroft Robin tapped his umbrella against the ground impatiently. After a little while Sherlock-the-Pooh called down to him.

“I’ve had the opportunity to make a few observations,” he said, “and I believe it possible that the bees _suspect_ something.”

“Perhaps they suspect that you’re after their honey.”

“It may well be. You never can tell with bees. Call it an experiment.”

There was another little silence, then Sherlock-the-Pooh called down to Mycroft Robin again.

“Mycroft Robin!”

“Yes?”

“Your umbrella!”

Mycroft Robin looked at it in some surprise. “What of it?”

“The solution to my dilemma! It’s so obvious. Open it up, and walk up and down with it, and look at me every now and then, and say ‘Tut-tut, it looks like rain.’ I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees.”

Mycroft Robin didn’t laugh at him, although he felt like it, because the truth is that he’s rather fond of Sherlock-the-Pooh.

( _”John—“_

 _“Drink. Your. Tea. Let me tell the story.”_ )

“Shall I put my umbrella up?”

“Yes but— oh, obvious, _obvious_! We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?”

“No.”

“A pity. No matter; the art of disguise is, after all, hiding in plain sight. It’s simply a matter of psychology, of getting inside the mind of one’s subject. If you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, ‘Tut-tut, it looks like rain,’ I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing…. Now!”

So Mycroft Robin walked up and down with his umbrella, wondering if it might rain, while Sherlock-the-Pooh sang this song:

> How sweet to be a Cloud  
>  Floating in the Blue!  
>  Every little cloud.  
>  _Always_ sings aloud.
> 
> “How sweet to be a Cloud  
>  Floating in the Blue!”  
>  It makes him very proud  
>  To be a little cloud.

Despite the acuity of Sherlock-the-Pooh’s psychological technique, the bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nest and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.

“Mycroft— _ow!_ —Robin,” called out the cloud.

“Yes?”

“I have reached a rather significant conclusion. _These are the wrong sorts of bees._ ”

“Are they?”

“Quite the wrong sort. This experiment is thoroughly invalidated. In addition to which, I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn’t you?”

“Would they?”

“Yes. So I think I shall come down.”

“And by what means,” Mycroft Robin said, folding his umbrella, “do you intend to accomplish that?”

Sherlock-the-Pooh hadn’t thought about this. If he let go of the string he would fall— _bump_ —and he didn’t like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said:

“Mycroft Robin, there is only one solution. You must retrieve a gun and shoot the balloon.”

“Guns being _entirely illegal_ , I cannot think where one might procure such an item. Not to mention, it would spoil the balloon.”

“If you don’t do as I say,” said Sherlock, “I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft Robin said, picking up a stone and throwing it at the balloon.

“ _Ow!_ ” said Sherlock.

“Did I miss?”

“Not precisely, no,” said Sherlock-the-Pooh, “but you missed the _balloon._ ”

“Terribly sorry,” Mycroft Robin said, and tried again with a new stone, and this time he hit the balloon and the air came slowly out—

( _”That’s not how—“ Sherlock began, then took one look at me and closed his mouth._ )

— slowly out, and Sherlock-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off.

( _”Physiologically unlikely."_

_"Mmm."_

_"If only he knew some sort of ex-army doctor,” Sherlock said wryly._

_“He should be so lucky.”_ )

And I think—but I am not sure—that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh.

* * *

“That’s the end, then, is it?” said Sherlock.

“That’s the end of that one. There are others.”

“That’s absurd and childish and an utter misrepresentation of me.” Sherlock shot me a narrow look, pale eyes glittering.

“It’s meant to be absurd and childish, it’s a children’s book.”

In his pocket, Sherlock’s phone chimed. “Lestrade,” he said, glancing at the screen. “Coming?” He was already on his feet and had one arm through the sleeve of his coat.

“Of course,” I said.

“Hurry,” he said. “I’ll catch us a cab.”

“Right behind you,” I promised. He left the door open, and through it I could hear his footsteps, bump bump bump, all the way down the seventeen stairs.


	2. In Which Andersore Loses a Tail and Sherlock Finds One

The case lasted three days. It involved a great deal of running followed by an all-night stint as a security guard, then more running culminating in one very close call with a knife-wielding veterinary assistant. Sherlock worked out that she had only become involved because the real criminal was blackmailing her brother, and after that things wrapped up rather quickly.

After that, Sherlock went to bed and stayed there until mid-afternoon.

I was just finishing the lunchtime washing-up when he came out of his room, still looking half-asleep, and sprawled out on the sofa with his eyes closed.

"You said you'd tell me the rest of it," he said. "The next story."

"You're not going to like this one very much, I'm afraid," I said.

Sherlock just closed his eyes. "John, I think that's a given," he said. "All the same, do get on with it."

So I did.

* * *

The bear, known to his friends as Sherlock-the-Pooh, or Sherlock for short, was walking through the forest one day, humming proudly to himself. He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was rearranging his chemistry set on the bookshelf: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_ , as he lined up the pipettes as high as he could reach, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la—oh, blast—la_ , as he stubbed his toe while nudging the last box of slides into place. Afterward he had said it over and over to himself until he had learned it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this:

> Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,  
>  Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,  
>  Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum.  
>  Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,  
>  Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,  
>  Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum.

( _"Come now, John. That's just utter nonsense. First of all, I never hum, and even if I did—"_

_"Fictional, remember? Though to be fair, you talk to yourself all the time while you're working."_

_"Yes, but—"_

_"And I'm hardly," I went on, "going to include that frankly creepy mnemonic you invented for recalling the blood disorders resulting in gangrene. So."_

_"I don't see why not," Sherlock muttered. "It's useful information for children to know."_ )

Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking about gaily, observing those he passed and trying to guess where they'd just left and where they were going--

( _"I never guess."_ )

—until he came to a thistly bit of forest.

"Aha!" said Sherlock. ( _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum_ ) "From the shape of the footprint just here, if I go this way, I shall find Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company, and Company means a crime scene, and listening to me deduce and such-like."

So he walked in that direction, calling:

"Rabbit, are you here?"

"No!" said a voice, and then added, "you needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time."

"Bother!" said Sherlock, about to turn around. "Isn't there anybody here at all?"

"Nobody!"

Sherlock thought seriously for a moment, rubbing his head with his paw. "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have said 'Nobody,'" he said to himself. "No, obvious, _obvious_ ; if there were no one here, then who told me there was no one here?"

He walked a bit further until he saw the old grey donkey, Andersore—

( _"You've made him a donkey."_

 _"I made him an **ass**_ _**,** " I said, smiling. "My publisher made me change it."_

 _Sherlock's face split into a wide grin. "I think I like this one quite well already."_ )

— the old grey donkey, Andersore, standing by himself, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, as he often did when he thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "Why?" and sometimes he thought, "Wherefore?" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?"—and sometimes he didn't quite know what he _was_ thinking about.

( _"That last fairly often, I'd say," Sherlock said._ )

"And what are you doing here?" he said to Sherlock-the-Pooh in a gloomy manner.

"I was looking for Rabbit," said Sherlock-the-Pooh, "to see how you were getting along."

"Not very how," he said. "I don't seem to have been doing at all how for a long time."

"Well," said Sherlock, "You're of no use to me at all if you aren't how. Let's have a look at you."

So Andersore stood there, gazing sadly at the ground, and Sherlock-the-Pooh walked all round him once.

"Aha!" he said. "The problem is quite readily apparent. To anyone with eyes, that is, so it's obvious why you haven't worked it out. What's happened to your tail?"

"What _has_ happened to it?" said Andersore.

"It isn't there!"

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. It either is there or isn't, after all, and since it isn't there, it's quite impossible that it is. Which means you've managed to lose it, however improbable that may be."

"I'll see for myself," said Andersore suspiciously, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he turned round the other way, until he came back to where he was at first, and then he put his head down and looked between his front legs, and at last he said, with a long, sad sigh, "I believe you're right."

"Of course I'm right," said Sherlock.

"That accounts for a good deal," said Andersore gloomily. "It explains everything. No wonder."

And indeed it did, for it was quite impossible for a donkey to operate a microscope without his tail, and without a microscope a forensics specialist was no use at all.

( _"Not that he's much use anyway," Sherlock growled._ )

"You must have left it somewhere," said Sherlock-the-Pooh.

( _"Oh god," Sherlock said. "This is about the time he lost his entire kit, with the key to the van inside, isn't it?"_

 _"You'll see," I said. "You're the one who wanted to hear this; let me tell it."_ )

"Someone must have taken it," said Andersore. " _You_ might have taken it," he added, after a long silence.

( _"You know, he **still**_ _thinks I took it," Sherlock said. "Even though I was the one who found it."_

_"He was just embarrassed," I said. "Maybe if you hadn't mocked him in front of Donovan—"_

_Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me. "John."_

_"Right, of course. Forgot who I was talking to, for a minute."_ )

"Andersore," he said solemnly, "You need someone who's observant and not nearly so useless as you or the rest of the Company. Fortunately for you, I'm the world's only Consulting Detective, and I'm _bored_. I shall find your tail for you."

"I'm sure you will," Andersore said snidely.

Ordinarily Sherlock-the-Pooh would have said something scathing and walked away, but that day he really was bored, so off he went to find Andersore's tail.

It was a fine spring morning in the forest as he started out. Little soft clouds played happily in a blue sky, skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely, and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Sherlock; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived.

( _"Waxing lyrical, a bit, aren't you, John? You're aware I simply sent a text to Anthea and asked her to check Mycroft's cameras, of course."_

_"Yes, and then you buggered off for hours pretending to look for it, while Anderson and his team were stuck—"_

_"How else was he supposed to learn to be less careless? Leaving it in a car park. Honestly, John." Sherlock's eyes flashed mischievously. "Besides, you should have seen his face."_

_"I can't imagine why you two don't get on. We'll just call it artistic license, then, shall we?"_ )

"If anyone knows anything about anything," said Sherlock-the-Pooh to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something--"

( _"That's true enough," Sherlock said. "Hiring her was the smartest thing Mycroft's ever done."_ )

"It's Owl who knows something about something, or my name's not Sherlock-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is. Obviously. So there you are."

Owl lived at The Blackberries, an old-world residence of great charm, which seemed incredibly grand to Sherlock, since it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said:

PLS RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD

( _"Text-speak, John?"_

_"As near as made sense. You've read her texts."_

_"I'm afraid so." Sherlock gave a dainty shudder. "To my eternal horror."_ )

Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said:

PLS KNOCK IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID

Sherlock-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some vital clue, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer!"

The door opened, and Owl looked out. "Don't you always," she said.

"Things down at the Company are in an uproar," Sherlock-the-Pooh said. "More of an uproar than usual, I mean. Andersore has lost his tail, and he's moping about it. The Company is useless, so I've agreed to find it for him."

"You've taken the case?" Owl looked amused. "Surely you know there's a customary procedure for these matters."

"I care nothing for Crustimoney Proseedcake," snapped Sherlock-the-Pooh, "for I only concern myself with matters of importance."

( _"Oh, god," Sherlock muttered. "John."_

 _"Children's book," I reminded him._ )

"Besides," he said after a moment, "I never eat when I'm on a case."

Owl blinked at him. "Customary procedure," she said again, "is to issue a reward. Then—"

"Just a moment," Sherlock said, holding up a paw. "What was that you said, just now? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me."

"I _didn't_ sneeze."

"Yes you did, Owl."

"Excuse me, Sherlock, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it."

"I never underestimate others' obliviousness. And you can't know it without something having been sneezed, obviously."

"What I said was, 'First _issue_ a reward.'"

"There it is again! I have deduced— unless— aha!" Sherlock hopped excitedly into the air. "Obviously that sneeze was made by someone lurking about outside. Come, Owl, we must investigate!"

So they went outside. Sherlock-the-Pooh looked around, but he did not see anyone lurking suspiciously outside, or indeed anyone at all.

"If there was someone here," he said, "there will be evidence. I must search for clues." So he investigated Owl's front stoop. He looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before.

"Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl.

"Silence, please. I am trying to observe," Sherlock said. "It reminds me— that is, I think there is a vital clue hidden here." He bent closer, squinting at it and humming thoughtfully to himself. "This seems to be the key to the whole affair," he said to Owl. "But I need more data. Tell me, where did this come from?"

"I just came across it in the forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and—"

"Owl," said Sherlock-the-Pooh solemnly, "you have made a supposition without all the evidence, and in so doing have committed a grave error. Somebody did want it."

"Who?"

"Andersore. He's rather— fond of it."

"Fond?"

"Attached," Sherlock-the-Pooh said. "Obviously."

And with that he unhooked it and carried it back to Andersore, singing proudly to himself:

> Who found the Tail?  
>  "I," said Pooh,  
>  "At a quarter to two  
>  (Only it was a quarter to eleven really)  
>  _I_ found the Tail!"

Andersore glared at Sherlock-the-Pooh when he heard the song, and Rabbit laughed behind his paw and promised to nail the tail back in its proper place. At this, Andersore gave off glaring to Sherlock and muttered a low _thank you_. This was such a surprise that Sherlock-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home. Besides which, he had solved the case, and it was time for him to have a little snack of something to sustain him.

* * *

When I finished Sherlock was very quiet for a few minutes.

"Well," he said at length. "Specious and infuriatingly simple though that excuse for a 'case' was, it could have been worse." His mouth pinched into a thin line. "The representation of my deductive skills leaves a great deal to be desired, of course, and the insinuation that I'd go to _Anthea_ —"

"You did go to Anthea," I reminded him. "You told me so yourself."

Sherlock made a small noise of disapproval. "Those obvious shortcomings aside," he said, "I'm most curious about one thing. He needs— I mean, in these stories, is there—" He swallowed. "Have you represented yourself, at all?"

Sherlock liked stories about himself most of all, because he was that sort of consulting detective, but he liked stories about the two of us even more than that.

"I have," I told him.

"Very good, John," he said, settling back on the sofa again with a wave of one hand. "Let's have one of those now."

"You're in luck," I said. "There's one up next."


	3. In Which Sherlock and Johnlet Go Hunting and Nearly Catch a Woozle

Johnlet lived all by himself in a house over the name of Baker Street.

( _"The room upstairs?"_

 _"Naturally."_ )

Next to his door was a piece of broken board which had "Tresspassers W" on it. When Mycroft Robin asked Johnlet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time. Mycroft Robin said you couldn't be called Tresspassers W, and Johnlet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one—Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.

"I've got two names," said Mycroft Robin carelessly.

"Well, there you are, that proves it," said Johnlet.

One fine winter's day when Johnlet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Sherlock-the-Pooh. Sherlock was walking round and round in a circle, muttering to himself and thinking of something else, and when Johnlet called to him, he just went on walking.

"Hallo!" said Johnlet. "What are you doing?"

"I'm on a case," said Sherlock.

"What sort of case?"

"I'm tracking something," said Sherlock-the-Pooh very mysteriously.

"Tracking what?" said Johnlet, coming closer.

"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What, indeed?"

"What do you think you'll answer?"

"I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Sherlock-the-Pooh. "No use theorising ahead of data. Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "Tell me, what do you observe?"

"Tracks," said Johnlet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Possibly of a— oh, Sherlock! Do you think it's a Woozle?"

( _Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me. "Nonsense animals, as well, John?"_

__

_"I couldn't very well use that frightening demon hound from the case in Devon."_

_"It wasn't a **demon**_ _, John," Sherlock said. "That was the whole—"_

_"Yes, and this whole case is about a Woozle. Do you want to hear it, or not?"_

_Sherlock shot me a sharp look at that, but fell silent._ )

"Quite possibly," said Sherlock. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks."

With these few words he went on tracking, and Johnlet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Sherlock-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way.

"What's the matter?" asked Johnlet.

"Something quite intriguing," said Sherlock, "but there seem to be two animals now. This—whatever-it-is—has been joined by a second, and the two are now proceeding in company." He straightened. "Would you mind coming with me, Johnlet? In case it turns out to be dangerous?"

Johnlet rubbed his leg in a patient sort of way, and said that he was more than a little unemployed, and would be delighted to come, in case it really was a Woozle.

"You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Sherlock-the-Pooh, and Johnlet said that either way he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together.

There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney. "This way, Johnlet!" said Sherlock, when Johnlet initially turned the wrong direction. They got that sorted, though, and round this spinney Sherlock and Johnlet went after them. Johnlet passed the time by telling Sherlock about his own mystery.

"And somehow," he said, "the milk just keeps disappearing." Sherlock-the-Pooh had a funny, almost-guilty expression on his face. "Maybe when this case is over you could investigate, because I don't know what could possibly—"

"Johnlet!" Sherlock stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "Look!"

"What?" said Johnlet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way.

( _Sherlock made a sound as though he were choking._

_"What?"_

_"Not a thing, John." But he was smiling._ )

"The tracks!" said Sherlock. "See here. A third animal has joined the others."

"Do you think it's another Woozle?"

"Not at all," said Sherlock. "Observe carefully; it makes different marks. We are dealing with two distinct possibilities. It is either two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them."

So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of hostile intent. And Johnlet was thinking how very glad he was that he was there, just in case they found themselves in a dangerous situation, and Sherlock thought how nice it would be if they met Mycroft Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Mycroft Robin so much.

( _"Ha!"_ )

And then, all of a sudden, Sherlock-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a thoughtful manner, for he wanted very much to concentrate on this increasingly-complex puzzle. It was quite plain from the tracks that their situation had not improved. There were now four animals in front of them!

( _"And of course, John," Sherlock said, "you'll recall that Sir Charles' footprints were found alongside those of an actual hound, and that the two sets looked nothing alike."_

_"If you remember it so well," I said, "perhaps you'd rather I didn't tell the story."_

_Sherlock was silent for a moment before answering. "No no, that's quite all right. You can go on."_ )

"Do you see, Johnlet? Observe their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it were, Wizzle. Another Woozle has joined them!"

And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws.

"Right," said Johnlet, looking about them. "Okay. Well, if we meet four of these Woozles, we can—"

Sherlock-the-Pooh was looking intently at the ground. "Wait a moment," he said, holding up his paw. "Wait. I think I see—" He looked at Johnlet, who was watching him.

"Yes," said Sherlock-the-Pooh. "I see now. First I went round the spinney twice by myself, and then—" He sat down and thought, in the most thoughtful way he could think. Then he fitted his paw into one of the tracks, and scratched his nose twice, and stood up.

"Of course, it's all quite apparent to me now. I have been foolish and deluded," said he, "and I am a bear of no brain at all."

( _"Really, John?"_

 _I just smiled at him._ )

"That was brilliant," Johnlet said. "You're brilliant."

( _"Am I?" said Sherlock._

 _"Of course you are. Don't be an idiot."_ )

"Am I?" said Sherlock-the-Pooh hopefully.

"Of course you are."

Then Sherlock-the-Pooh brightened up suddenly. "And now that we've solved that case, it's time for dinner!"

And together, they went home for it.


	4. In Which Kanga and Roo Come to the Forest, and Johnlet Has a Bath

Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the forest: Kanga and Roo. When Sherlock-the-Pooh asked Mycroft Robin, "How did they come here?" Mycroft Robin twirled the handle of his umbrella and said, "I've been trying to determine that."

Sherlock gave him an odd look and went upstairs to call upon his friend Johnlet so they could all go talk to Rabbit about it together.

"What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here we are—you, Sherlock, and you, Johnlet, and me, and the petty criminals and all the rest of us—thinking we have a pretty good handle on the criminal element in the forest. Then suddenly we wake up one morning, and what do we find? We find a strange animal among us. An animal of a different sort entirely, of whom we had never even heard before."

"Something new," said Sherlock-the-Pooh, eyes shining.

( _Sherlock sat up abruptly. "John."_

_"Hmm?"_

_There was a long pause; when Sherlock spoke again, his voice was sharp. "I don't—that is, you've surprised me. I wouldn't have thought you'd write about this particular incident."_

_"The publisher insisted. And from a certain perspective," I said, "it was quite funny."_

_Sherlock was watching my face closely. "Perhaps."_ )

"Never mind," said Johnlet. "The question is, what are we to do about Kanga?"

"We don't know much about him, except his association with Roo. So the best way," Rabbit said, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Roo and hide him."

( _"You aren't even trying with the names, are you?"_

_"Well," I said, "to be quite honest, I wasn't going to include this story at all. And I don't feel compelled to include them any more directly than I have to, no." I cleared my throat. "Plus, you know. Kanga, Roo, they're like one unit, aren't they? And kangaroos **are** unusual, at least around here, and I've always thought they were a bit ridiculous-looking, if deceptively dangerous. It… helps, to think of Moriarty that way. Like a boggart, you know?"_

_"I'm sure I don't," Sherlock said._ )

"To what end?" Sherlock-the-Pooh asked.

"So that we can say to Kanga, Aha! Then we can say, We'll tell you where Roo is, if you promise to go away from the forest and never come back."

"A futile plan unless we work out a few more— hm. Silence, please, while I think," said Sherlock, and took himself off into a corner, where he paced back and forth and muttered to himself.

"There's just one thing," said Johnlet. "I was talking to Mycroft Robin, and he said that we must regard Kanga as a particularly dangerous creature. Not only because it is new—"

( _"When of course it turned out that he'd been in London all along," Sherlock said, "and those idiots were never aware until he contacted me."_

_"That's a bit unfair, isn't it? You met him yourself and didn't even realise."_

_"Yes," Sherlock said darkly. "I know."_ )

"Not only because it is a new sort of creature, but because it tends to know quite a lot of other dangerous creatures. And it stands to reason that taking its closest companion would only make it twice as dangerous. So perhaps just rushing in would be a foolish thing to do."

"Johnlet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck."

"It is hard to be brave," said Johnlet, when you're only a very small animal."

( _Sherlock scowled at me. "That's the biggest load of rubbish I've ever—"_ )

"It is because you are a very small animal that you will be useful in the adventure before us," said Sherlock.

Johnlet was so excited at the idea of being useful that he forgot to be frightened anymore.

( _Sherlock was watching me so intently I was obliged to stop. "It would have been foolish not to be," I said. "Frightened."_

_"Never let it stop you, though."_

_I grinned at him. "Well, you certainly never let it stop **you** ; I just do my best to keep up."_)

"Now listen, all of you," said Sherlock-the-Pooh. "I shall tell you my plan to capture Roo. Rabbit, take this down precisely."

1\. General Remarks: Kanga runs faster than any of us, even Rabbit.

( _"When in reality, of course, I'm the fastest," Sherlock said._

 _"Of course."_ )

2\. More general remarks: Kanga never takes her eyes off Roo, except when he's safely buckled up in her pocket.

( _"Her?"_

 _"Male kangaroos don't have pockets. It made the publisher happy. It'd irritate the hell out of Moriarty, too, I suspect. Do you want me to tell this or not?"_ )

3\. Therefore. If we are to capture Roo, we must get a long start, because Kanga runs faster than any of us, even Rabbit. (see 1.)  
4\. A thought. If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Johnlet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Johnlet is a very small animal.  
5\. Like Roo.

( _"When you put it like that, the plan sounds idiotic," Sherlock said, sounding chagrined._

 _"Perhaps. In theory, though, having me climb up on the roof in Moran's place was fairly sound._ ")

6\. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Johnlet jumping in.

( _"Until, of course," I said, "you decided the best way to create a diversion would be to simply waltz out into Moran's line of sight. So of course I had to run back down and—"_

_"Moriarty was going to see you," Sherlock said. "And I needed to know if you'd successfully taken Moran out yet or not."_

_"And the best way to determine that was by testing whether or not you'd get shot, was it?"_

_Sherlock waved a hand, and said again, more insistently: "He would have seen you._ ")

7\. See 2.  
8\. Another thought. But if Sherlock-the-Pooh was talking to her very excitedly she might look the other way for a moment.  
9\. And then Rabbit could apprehend Roo.  
10\. Quickly.  
11\. And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until afterwards.

For a little while nobody said anything. And then Johnlet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily:

"And— afterwards?"

"How do you mean?"

"When Kanga does discover the difference?"

"Then we present our proposal," said Sherlock-the-Pooh, "and she goes her merry way."

"All three of us?"

"Yes."

"Oh!"

"Why, what's the trouble, Johnlet?"

"Nothing," said Johnlet, "as long as we all three are there together. At the end, I mean. Because I can say Aha! by myself, but it won't be very good."

( _"Where, in reality," Sherlock said, "we had this part of the plan worked out to the smallest detail, and knew you were perfectly capable—"_

_"Yes, well," I said, "call it dramatic tension. Not to mention, I can't very well write myself as the hero of my own bloody book, can I?"_

_"No?" Sherlock looked amused. "Who is, then?"_

_"You tell me. Just put that enormous brain of yours to work on deducing the answer to that."_ )

"And I shall talk to her very hard, so that she doesn't notice anything."

"What will you say?" asked Rabbit.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something. Perhaps I'll tell her a bit of poetry or something." Sherlock-the-Pooh clapped his hands. "Right," he said. "Everyone knows what to do? Splendid! Now come along."

So they all went out to look for Kanga.

Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the forest. Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them. Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." At that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Sherlock.

"Hallo, Kanga."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole.

"We were just about to be on our way," said Kanga. "We have some business to attend to."

Johnlet moved very quietly to hide behind a small bush.

"Kanga," said Sherlock, "I don't suppose you're interested in poetry at all?"

"Hardly," said Kanga.

"You'll like this piece of poetry," said Sherlock. "You must listen very carefully."

Kanga ignored him. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really must be going."

"Look at me!" said Roo, and jumped into another mouse-hole.

"Talking of poetry," said Sherlock quickly, trying a different tactic, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?"

"No," said Kanga, turning to Sherlock. Johnlet shoved a small log over the hole, trapping Roo inside. "I'm sure it's just a tree. Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll be on our way."

"You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Sherlock-the-Pooh. "I can see a bird in it from here. Or is it a fish?"

"It must be a fish, not a bird," said Kanga.

"That's the whole question," said Sherlock. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?"

And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Sherlock said in a loud voice, "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Johnlet into Kanga's pocket.

"Are you all right, Roo, dear?" said Kanga, turning round again.

Johnlet made a squeaky Roo noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket.

"Well, we must be getting on," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Sherlock." And in three large jumps she was gone.

"It would be terribly useful to be able to jump like that," Sherlock said to Rabbit, who had come up the other side of the hill. Rabbit agreed, and helped Sherlock fish Roo out of the mouse-hole where he was trapped.

It might have been useful, but Johnlet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but as he was bumped and jostled at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, he thought to himself, If this is flying I shall never really take to it.

As soon as Kanga got back to her house and unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Mycroft Robin could never let any harm happen to Roo.

( _Sherlock scowled and made a growling sound low in his throat. "Bloody Mycroft," he said. "We'd have found you so much more quickly if he'd let me—"_

 _"Worked out all right in the end, though," I told him._ )

So Kanga said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them."

( _"Not much of a joke, sending you into the Bank of England with an unloaded gun."_

_"You'd rather it were loaded?"_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me. "If you'd needed to defend yourself I'd have preferred you were able to do it, yes."_

_"I knew I wouldn't need to."_

_"Hmm," Sherlock said, leaning back again and closing his eyes._ )

"Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Johnlet out of her pocket. "Bed-time."

"Aha!" said Johnlet, as well as he could after his terrifying journey, but it wasn't very good. "Aha!" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant.

"Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice.

"Aha!" said Johnlet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there; Rabbit and Sherlock were playing with Roo at Rabbit's house, feeling more fond of him every minute.

( _"That wasn't what—" Sherlock broke off, then tried again. "If Mycroft had let me 'play with' Moran properly," he growled, "we'd have found you immediately."_

 _I just shook my head; there really wasn't much to say to that._ )

Johnlet, who had never really been fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could:

"Kanga, I can see that the time has come to speak plainly."

"Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready.

"I am not Roo," said Johnlet loudly. "I am Johnlet!"

"Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Johnlet's voice, too! How clever."

"Can't you see?" shouted Johnlet. "Haven't you got eyes? Look at me!"

"I am looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Johnlet's, you will grow up to look like Johnlet—and then think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again."

"Ow!" cried Johnlet. "Let me out!"

( _On the sofa, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably._

_"He does not get eaten by the eels at this time," I said lightly._

_"What?"_

_Of course. "Nothing. It ends up fine, though. You do know that."_

_"Yes," he said, "of course I— yes."_ )

"Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in," said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?"

"You—you—you did it on purpose," spluttered Johnlet, as soon as he could speak again… and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathered flannel.

"That's right dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Johnlet was out of the bath and being rubbed dry with a towel.

"Now," said Kanga, "there's your--"

( _"John," Sherlock said, cutting me off. He had his eyes closed and was lying with his hands steepled over his stomach. His fingertips were pressed so tightly together that the nails showed white. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "I think I might prefer not to finish this one, if it's all the same to you."_ )

* * *

I set the manuscript aside. "It's okay," I said. "I shouldn't have included this one—"

He made a noise of protest, but still didn't open his eyes.

"—or, at least, shouldn't have read it." I swallowed. "Look, he didn't hurt me. Didn't give me a bath, either, much as I'd have liked one. So."

"He had you for two days," Sherlock said, ignoring my poor attempt at a joke. "We didn't know…" He trailed off with a wave his hand.

"He was just toying with you, trying to get your attention. If he'd wanted to kill me, he'd have done it immediately, but instead he sent me into the Bank of England—ridiculously high-profile, CC cameras everywhere—guaranteeing you'd see it. I knew you'd work it out, make sure the guards let me get in and out without anyone getting hurt."

"He wouldn't have needed to 'get my attention,' as you so blithely put it, if I'd been able to figure out where you were in the first place."

"Hardly your fault. All he wanted by then was to exchange me for Moran. And thank goodness you _hadn't_ hurt Moran, come to that."

Sherlock made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.

"The resolution is… satisfactory? In the story, I mean?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "Mycroft Robin comes by, and calls Kanga's bluff, then Johnlet rolls about in the mud to get himself nice and dirty again and everyone gets to go home. They end up seeing each other once in a while, in fact, afterward."

"Oh, you can count on that," Sherlock growled. Then, in a lighter voice: "I think I might have had enough of this for tonight. We can continue, perhaps, tomorrow?"

I just smiled at him. "If you'd like," I said. "I think you'll like the next one quite a bit."


	5. In Which Johnlet is Entirely Surrounded by Water

We didn't get back to the story for several more nights. Sherlock was occupied with a case that lasted several days; after that, more locum work for me.

So it happened that it was nearly a week later that I returned to 221b to find Sherlock waiting for me on the sofa. He had his hands crossed over his stomach; when I entered the flat his eyes sprang open. He watched me hang up my coat, put away the shopping, and settle myself in my armchair without a word.

* * *

**In Which Johnlet Is Entirely Surrounded by Water**

( _The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile. "Really, John?"_

_"You didn't think I was going to let the Presbury case go to waste, did you?"_

_"Oh," he said, settling back down against the sofa, "I'd certainly hoped not."_ )

It rained and it rained and it rained. Johnlet told himself that never in all his life, and he was goodness knows how old—three, was it, or four?—never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days.

( _"That was quite the week, wasn't it," Sherlock said._

_"For the best, really. If the Thames hadn't been flooded to begin with, there might have been cause for concern."_

_Sherlock made an amused noise, low in his throat._ )

"If only," he thought, as he looked out the window, "I had been in Sherlock's house, or Mycroft Robin's house, or even Rabbit's house when it began to rain, then I should have had company all this time, instead of being here all alone, with nothing to do except wonder when it will stop." And he imagined himself with Sherlock saying, "Did you ever see such rain, Sherlock?" and Sherlock saying, "Isn't it hateful, Johnlet?" and Johnlet saying "I wonder how it is over Mycroft Robin's way," and Sherlock saying, "I should think Rabbit is about flooded out by this time." It would have been jolly to talk like this, really; it wasn't much good having anything exciting like floods if you couldn't share them with somebody.

( _"Of course I didn't wish you were actually there," I told him, "but—"_

_"Always more fun with two," he said lightly. "I'd have preferred you were with me that night, come to that."_

_"You'd certainly have made it more interesting. Bloody dull, for the most part."_ )

For it was rather exciting. The little dry ditches in which Johnlet had nosed about so often had become streams, the little streams across which he had splashed were rivers, and the river, between whose steep banks they had played so happily, had sprawled out of its own bed and was taking up so much room everywhere that Johnlet was beginning to wonder whether it would be coming into _his_ bed soon.

"It's a little anxious—"

( _"You weren't seriously concerned, John, were you?"_

_"Probably for less time than you were, all told. I mean, that's not precisely a dream scenario, standing around in the Thames, waiting for— well. But not seriously worried, no. Not once I realised they'd mixed up the tide schedules." I smiled at him. "They really were first-class idiots."_

_Sherlock made a derisive sound. "Fourth class at best. Sometimes, John, I despair for the declining quality of the criminal element in this city."_ )

"It's a little anxious," he said to himself, "to be a very small animal entirely surrounded by water. Mycroft Robin and Sherlock could escape by climbing trees, and Rabbit could escape by burrowing, and Owl could escape by flying, and Andersore could escape by—by making a loud noise until rescued, and here am I, surrounded by water and I can't do _anything_."

( _Sherlock made a quiet, incredulous sound._ )

It went on raining, and every day the water got a little higher, until now it was nearly up to Johnlet's window… and still he hadn't done anything.

"There's Sherlock," he thought to himself. "Sherlock can be quite the idiot sometimes, but he never comes to any harm. He does silly things and they turn out right. And then there's Mycroft Robin—"

( _"Don't let me give you the impression that I approve, of course," I said, "of half the absurd situations you land yourself in."_

 _Sherlock gave me a quick look from the corners of his eyes. "And don't let **me** give **you** the impression," he said, "that I don't know precisely why I so rarely come to harm."_ )

And suddenly Johnlet remembered a story which Mycroft Robin had told him about a man on a desert island who had written something in a bottle and thrown it in the sea; and Johnlet thought that if he wrote something in a bottle and threw it in the water, perhaps somebody would come and rescue _him_!

He left the window and began to search his house, all of it that wasn't under water, and at last he found a pencil and a small piece of dry paper, and a bottle with a cork to it. And he wrote on one side of the paper:

HELP!  
JOHNLET (Me)

And on the other side:

IT'S ME JOHNLET, HELP HELP.

( _Sherlock had his hand over his mouth, but it wasn't quite enough to muffle the sound he'd just made. His eyes were sparkling with amusement."Your— your **mobile!** " _

_His amusement was infectious, and I could feel laughter bubbling up in my own chest. "Well, if they were going to grab me **while I was on the phone with you** ," I said, my own voice shaking with suppressed mirth, "they shouldn't have expected me to oblige them by disconnecting the call. But when they realised one of them was going to have to go back for it to get your number—"_

_"He actually walked up to it while Lestrade was standing there, we— of course we'd tracked your phone." The corners of Sherlock's mouth were twitching, his expression incredulous. "I still can't— my number is on the website."_

_"I don't think research was their strong suit, to be honest."_

_"Clearly."_ )

Then he put the paper in the bottle, and he corked the bottle up as tightly as he could, and he leant out of the window as far as he could lean without falling in, and he threw the bottle as far as he could throw— _splash!_ —and in a little while it bobbed up again on the water; and he watched it floating slowly away in the distance, until his eyes ached with looking, and sometimes he thought it was the bottle, and sometimes he thought it was just a ripple on the water which he was following, and then suddenly he knew that he would never see it again and that he had done all that he could do to save himself.

( _"Again, John," Sherlock said, "I fear you do yourself a disservice. Blinking out Morse code was simply inspired."_

_"I wasn't sure it'd come across," I said. "I mean, mobile screens, not exactly high resolution, and it was dark. But it wasn't as though I didn't know we were at the Richmond footbridge, so I thought I'd give it a go. On the off-chance."_

_"Well, I didn't pick up on it at first," he admitted, his breath beginning to shake in his chest as he fought to control his rising laughter. "I was rather distracted by the fact that they'd managed to get identifiable bits of St Margarets in the background."_

_He caught my eye. Then we were both laughing, hard enough that it was some time before I had enough breath to continue_.)

"So now," Johnlet thought, "somebody else will have to do something, and I hope they will do it soon, because if they don't I shall have to swim, which I can't, so I hope they do it soon." And then he gave a very long sigh and said, "I wish Sherlock were here. It's so much more friendly with two."

( _"Not to mention," I said, "what I'd have given to see your face when Bennett cut his palm open with his own balisong." Sherlock's eyes were shining with humour. "I'm sorry I missed **his** face, come to that."_

_"Oh, had they blindfolded you by that time? Pity."_

_"I heard him telling Presbury—who'd gone to get my phone by then, of course—I'd hurt him and he was headed to A &E. I couldn't work out how I'd managed it, I mean, they were idiots, but I'd no idea. If it weren't for the gag, I'd have **asked him**. I didn't figure out what had happened until Lestrade picked him up later._ ")

When the rain began Sherlock was asleep. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, and rained, and he slept and he slept and he slept.

( _"I know you weren't actually asleep," I said, seeing the indignant expression on Sherlock's face. "But it seemed like a better explanation than "he was elbow-deep in larvae and waiting for me to come back with more— what was it? Crafting glue?"_

_Sherlock chuckled. "Fair enough, I suppose. Although, John, why you persist in the belief that the scientific method is an inappropriate subject for a children's book is beyond me."_

_"I know it is," I said, smiling._

_"Besides which, you had the situation well in hand." Sherlock snorted. "So don't leave him there; get on with it."_

_I sighed. "Okay, so he wakes up," I said, "and sees the bottle floating by…."_ )

"Well, here's a puzzle that shall require all my faculties," Sherlock-the-Pooh said. "For I must find someone to help me decipher this message, but I can't swim."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and put his head in his paws, and thought very hard until he had an idea. He said to himself: "If a bottle can float, then a jar can float, and if a jar floats, I can sit on the top of it, if it's a very big jar."

So he took his biggest jar, and corked it up. "All boats have to have a name," he said, "so I shall call mine _The Science of Floatation_." And with these words he dropped his boat into the water and jumped in after it.

( _Beside me, Sherlock chuckled indignantly. I ignored it._ )

For a little while Sherlock and _The Science of Floatation_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Science of Floatation_ underneath and Sherlock triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet.

Mycroft Robin lived at the very top of the forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting.

( _"Just like him," Sherlock muttered darkly, "not to worry about what's going on elsewhere in the city, so long as—"_

_"That's hardly fair," I said. "He was more than happy to help when you needed him."_

_Sherlock made a low, growling sound, but didn't reply_.)

It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to Mycroft Robin.

"I say, Owl," said Mycroft Robin, "isn't this interesting?"

"The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height."

"Quite."

"However," Owl went on, "the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment—"

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"No. At any moment—"

"I hope he's all right," said Mycroft Robin. "I've been wondering about him, you know. He's probably got Johnlet with him. Do you suppose they're all right?"

"I expect so. You see, at any moment—"

"Go and see, Owl. Because Sherlock hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something ill-advised. You know how I worry about him."

"Yes," said Owl, "I know. I'll go. Back directly." And she flew off.

In a little while she was back again.

"Sherlock isn't there," she said.

"Not there?" Mycroft Robin rubbed his palm over the handle of his umbrella thoughtfully. "Where might he have taken himself off to, I wonder? One of his bolt-holes, perhaps?"

"Here I am," said a growly voice behind him.

"And how did you get here," Mycroft Robin asked, "with the forest in such a flooded state?"

( _"There actually were streets out; the traffic that night was a nightmare. Even going on foot would have been difficult." Sherlock said. "That disused tube tunnel was the quickest route, even factoring in the time it took to break in." He breathed a quick laugh down his nose. "Whatever Lestrade says."_

_"Well, I'm glad you didn't leave it much longer. I was very nearly in danger of my toes going numb."_

_"Horrors," Sherlock said quietly, his mouth curving into a close-lipped smile._ )

"On my boat," said Sherlock proudly. "I had a very important message sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat."

Mycroft Robin read the message aloud. "We must rescue him at once!" He raised an eyebrow in Sherlock-the-Pooh's direction. "I thought he was with you."

"Obviously not," said Sherlock. "If he were, he'd hardly need rescuing."

( _Sherlock was watching me closely. I was careful not to meet his eye._ )

"Come along then, Sherlock," said Mycroft Robin. "Where's your boat?"

"I ought to say, " explained Sherlock as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. It's a bit… experimental. Sometimes it's a boat, and sometimes it's more of an accident. It all rather depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On certain conditions. Specifically, whether I'm on top of it or underneath it."

( _"One wrong turn into an active tunnel," Sherlock said, his eyebrows drawing together into a scowl. "One. Considering the dark, I don't think--"_

_"Not only into an active tunnel," I broke in, "but practically into the side of a train. A moving train. How did you not hear—"_

_"I was concentrating on getting the lock open," Sherlock said. "They do make them rather secure, you know._ ")

"Well, regardless, it will have to be made to suit our purposes. Where is it?"

"There!" said Sherlock, pointing proudly to _The Science of Floatation_.

It wasn't at all what Mycroft Robin had expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a brave and clever bear Sherlock was, and the more Mycroft Robin thought this, the more Sherlock glared down his noise and pretended not to notice.

"But it's too small for the two of us," said Mycroft Robin sadly.

"Three of us, with Johnlet."

"That makes it smaller still." Mycroft Robin examined his fingernails thoughtfully. "Perhaps if I… no, perhaps not. Hmm."

( _"He ended up having to call in a favour from one of his— well, never mind. He's going to be insufferable until I do something for him in return. Something unbearably tedious, no doubt." Sherlock was glowering down his nose._

_"Mm," I said. "I **am** sorry about that."_

_"What? Oh, no," Sherlock said hastily. "Mycroft is insufferable at the best times. Think nothing of it." He waved a hand in my direction. "A minor inconvenience, I'm more than happy to— that is, consider it—" He broke off and looked up at me, pale eyes glinting. "Anytime."_ )

"We might go in your umbrella," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"We might go in your umbrella."

Mycroft Robin just stared at him.

"We might go," Sherlock-the-Pooh said more slowly, "in your umbrella. Kindly don't make me repeat myself again, you know how I dislike it."

At that, Mycroft Robin smiled, for suddenly he saw that they might. He opened his umbrella and put it point downward in the water. It floated but wobbled. Sherlock got in. He was just beginning to say that it was all right now, when he found that it wasn't, so after a short drink that he didn't really want—"

( _"Hardly my fault. That floating disaster Mycroft called a boat was entirely unstable," Sherlock growled._ )

"— he waded back to Mycroft Robin. Then they both got in together, and it wobbled no longer."

( _"And he has that assistant of his to thank for the recent success of his diet."_

 _"Sherlock. He was helping. Be kind._ ")

"I shall call this boat _The Brain of Sherlock_ ," said Mycroft Robin—

( _At that, Sherlock made an entirely undignified snorting sound._ )

\--and _The Brain of Sherlock_ set sail forthwith in a south-westerly direction, revolving gracefully.

( _Sherlock's chest was shaking with laughter again. "I wish you could have seen yourself. We show up to find you sitting there still cuffed to the ladder, literally twiddling your thumbs while the water rushed merrily by below you. You just looked so… annoyed." I was laughing too, by this time. "I think I could see your glare even through the hood. How you managed to pull yourself up—"_

 _"Proper motivation," I said. "I wasn't exactly about to spend any more time than I had to waist-deep in cold, filthy Thames water, waiting for my idiot flatmate to show up with his lockpicks."_ )

You can imagine Johnlet's joy when at last the ship came in sight of him. In after-years he liked to think that he had been in very great danger during the terrible flood, but the only danger he had really been in was in the last half-hour of his imprisonment, when his eyelids grew very heavy and he started to fall asleep, slipping out of the window towards the water until he was only hanging on by his toes.

( _"Fine," I said, to Sherlock's sharp look, "my feet were already beginning to fall asleep. My fingers, too. It was a bit cold out that night, if you recall._ _ _"__

_"I do," Sherlock said. "And your shoulder was giving you trouble." This time it was my turn to stare at him. "John, don't be obtuse," he said, "of course I noticed. There were hours yet before you were in any danger, but I'd anticipated. I'd not have gone to Mycroft, otherwise; Lestrade would have caught up to you in plenty of time."_

_I smiled at him. "Yes," I said. "And thanks for that."_ )

Not to mention that he was more than a bit bored, and missed his friends, and— well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, The Brain of Sherlock, coming over the sea to rescue him.

* * *

"And meanwhile," Sherlock said, "Lestrade was sending someone down to A&E to pick up Bennett, and Presbury was already being questioned, and—" He broke off, his face splitting into a wide grin. "I'm not sure I've ever seen you look more irritated."

"They're usually a bit more competent," I said. "The kidnappers, I mean. It's a bit insulting, really, when they can't be bothered to try a little harder. Funny, though. And besides," I went on, "I'm sure I've been at least that irritated with you."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, smiling at me, "but that hardly counts."

"No," I said, smiling back. "It really doesn't."


	6. In Which Mycroft Robin Gives Sherlock a Party, and We Say Good-bye

Sherlock was standing by the window when I came downstairs the next evening, twitching the curtain impatiently.

"He's out there," Sherlock said, his voice low and menacing.

"Right," I said, steeling myself. "Who's that?"

Instead of answering Sherlock just made a low growling sound and turned away from the window. He snatched his mobile from the table and tossed it to me in one smooth gesture; I attribute the fact that I caught it as much to good fortune as to reflex.

 **Don't be so childish** , read the screen.

I blinked at him.

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, throwing himself down on his back on the sofa. "I told you, John. He's _out there_. And he's in a particularly meddlesome mood, even for him. It's intolerable."

Of course. "Do you know what he wants?"

"I shudder to contemplate," Sherlock said, folding his hands below his chin and closing his eyes. "Some horrors are beyond even my powers of imagination." There was a pause before he went on. "I believe, perhaps, a distraction may be in order."

In my hand, the phone buzzed again. **Five minutes until I take the situation into my own hands.**

"Am I correct," Sherlock said, tilting his chin and slanting one eye open to fix me with a pointed stare, "in thinking that you have… I mean, that there's another… that you have not yet shared with me the entirety of your insipid children's book?"

"Oh, it's 'insipid' now, is it?" Well, then; let Mycroft's visit remain a surprise. I set his mobile aside.

"Insipid, yes," Sherlock said, closing his eye again, "along with spurious, fanciful—"

"And you'd like me to read the rest of it to you."

His cheek twitched up into a smile. "— and diverting. So, yes, John, if you'd be so kind," he said, "I think I'd like that very much."

* * *

**In Which Mycroft Robin Gives Sherlock a Party, and We Say Good-bye**

( _A wry chuckle rumbled in Sherlock's chest._ )

One day when the sun had come back over the forest, bringing with it the scent of May, and all the streams of the forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and the wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Mycroft Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the wood to see what was wanted.

"Owl," said Mycroft Robin, "I am going to give a party."

"Oh, are you?" said Owl.

"It's to be a particular sort of party, in celebration of what Sherlock did when he saved Johnlet from the flood."

( _"A party?" Sherlock asked sharply. I waited. "For— oh. **John**."_

_I shifted in my chair, suddenly embarrassed. "Well, you never let them print your name in the papers," I said. "I mean, there's your blog, and **my** blog" — Sherlock snorted — "but I just… I thought it might be nice. It **is** appreciated, you know. What you do."_

_Some of the tension had left Sherlock's shoulders. He turned his head and opened his eyes to peer thoughtfully at me down his nose._

_I swallowed, trying to will away the heat I could feel in my face and throat . "Call it a flight of fancy."_ )

"— In celebration of what Sherlock did when he saved Johnlet from the flood."

"Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl.

"Yes, so you must go and tell everyone as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be tomorrow."

( _"As I say," Sherlock broke in. "Meddlesome."_

_"I don't know if that's quite—" I began, but was interrupted by three sharp raps on the door. Barely a moment later the door swung inward._

_"Oh, god," Sherlock said, covering his eyes with one long-fingered hand._

_"Pleasure to see you as well," said Mycroft. As he entered, his eyes flicked back and forth from Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa, to me, and back again. "Goodness," he said, "Is this story hour? I don't mean to **intrude**."_

_"And yet," said Sherlock, still covering his eyes, "you seem to have managed it quite well."_

_"It's quite all right," I said, shuffling the pages of the proof back into a neat stack. "We can resume later, if you—"_

_"John." Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Ignore him. Just go on."_

_Mycroft's lips twitched into a wry smile. "Oh yes," he said. "Of course. The fabled children's book." He leaned his hips against the kitchen table and quirked an eyebrow in my direction. "I'll admit, I was quite intrigued when I heard you'd elected to memorialise my brother's exploits in this particular fashion, Doctor, and—"_

_Sherlock waved a hand and twisted his shoulders to glare at Mycroft over the arm of the sofa. "If you want to stay," he said, "then let him read." The brothers glared at each other for several long seconds; then Sherlock unwound his spine and settled back against the armrest with his gaze on the ceiling. "Go on, John," he said placidly._

_"Er," I said, "right," and resumed._ )

Owl flew immediately off to tell the others. The first person she told was Sherlock.

"Sherlock," she said, "Mycroft Robin is giving a party in your honour."

( _The two brothers made a remarkably similar sound of amusement. I kept my eyes carefully on the paper in my hand._ )

"Oh!" said Sherlock-the-Pooh. And then, seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said, "Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?"

( _"Those were—" Sherlock began._

_"Yes, I know," I said. "You needed them for an experiment. The sort of 'experiment' that results in you getting icing under your nails and in the corner of your mouth." Sherlock made an indignant sound. "Oh, come off it," I said. "I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I do have **eyes**."_

_Beside me, Mycroft made a noise that was not quite a laugh._

_"I got more at the shop yesterday," I told Sherlock. "They're in the cupboard, if you want them."_ )

"A party for me?" thought Sherlock to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Sherlock Party, and if Mycroft Robin had told them about _The Science of Floatation_ and _The Brain of Sherlock_ and all the wonderful things he had invented, and the deductions he had made, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right.

( _"You'd be surprised at the frequency of… misapprehension," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling._

_I thought of Mrs Hudson, and Angelo, and the rest of Sherlock's network of gratitude to which I'd been introduced over the last few months. I ran my fingertips over the papers balanced on my thigh, which hadn't ached in nearly a year._

_Mycroft seemed absorbed in contemplation of the handle of his umbrella, keeping his gaze trained studiously downward._

_"Yes," I said, "but we're idiots."_

_Sherlock made a skeptical sound, but the corner of his mouth twisted into a smile.)_

So Owl flew around to each of the animals and invited them to Mycroft Robin's party. Even Andersore, who had been quite skeptical and had at first supposed the invitation was something he was meant to eat.

"A mistake, no doubt," said Andersore at last, "but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains."

It didn't rain.

When it came down to it, Sherlock-the-Pooh was so anxious that the party would get muddled that he thought he wouldn't come after all, and Mycroft Robin had to come pick him up.

( _"Childish," said Mycroft._

 _"Fictional," I reminded him._ )

But in the end everyone was there to celebrate Sherlock-the-Pooh. Mycroft Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Mycroft Robin sat at one end, and Sherlock sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Johnlet, and between them on the other side were Andersore and Rabbit. And all Rabbit's friends-and-relations spread themselves about on the grass with the other members of the Company, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time.

"Hallo," said Johnlet to Andersore. "So good to see you here, to celebrate Sherlock being a Bear of Enormous Brain."

Andersore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said.

Johnlet looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" but Owl ignored him, and went on telling Rabbit a story about an accident that had happened to a friend of hers that he didn't know.

When they had all nearly eaten enough, Mycroft Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent.

"This party," said Mycroft Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" to Owl.

While he was looking, Andersore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak.

"Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it is a pleasure so far, to see you at my—"

( _"Oh, god," Sherlock said, "once he gets going—"_ )

"What's Andersore talking about?" Johnlet whispered to Sherlock.

"The usual sort of rubbish, I expect," Sherlock-the-Pooh scowled.

"I thought this was _your_ party."

"As did I. But I suppose it isn't."

"I'd sooner it was yours than Andersore's," said Johnlet.

"So would I," said Sherlock.

"AS—I—WAS—SAYING," said Andersore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various loud sounds, I feel that—"

"Here it is," said Mycroft Robin. "Pass it down to Sherlock. It's for Sherlock."

"For Sherlock?"

"Of course it is."

"I might have known," said Andersore.

But nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Sherlock," "What is it, Sherlock," "I know what it is," "No, you don't," and other helpful remarks of the sort.

Sherlock had set the package on the table in front of him and was examining it closely, tapping his paw to his chin and making little _hmm_ ing sounds. "From the shape and weight, I suppose it might be— no, I suppose not. Well, perhaps……"

"You won't guess it," said Mycroft Robin, fingering the handle to his umbrella. "You might as well just open it."

( _"John," said Sherlock, "how many times do I have to tell you—"_ )

"I don't _guess_ ," said Sherlock-the-Pooh. But he unwrapped it, quickly and carefully.

At first Sherlock was puzzled. It was a small carving of a horse's head, made from a heavy red wood, polished to a shine.

( _Beside me, Mycroft inclined his head sharply. "Really, Sherlock? You told him about that?"_

_Sherlock smiled at me. "To this day," he said, "our mother wonders what happened to that piece. She was quite upset at the time. It was her favourite chess set; she claimed her concentration never recovered."_

_"You were the one fascinated with it, not I," said Mycroft._

_"But I wasn't the one who pinched it, was I?" Sherlock said sharply._

_"Yes, but I'd have been able to put it back if you hadn't—" Mycroft cut himself off with a shake of his head and a sharp breath of irritation._

_"She had a replacement made, of course," Sherlock said to me, "but it was never quite the same."_ )

"The knight," Mycroft Robin said, "represents Sherlock-the-Pooh's Great Bravery, and his many Leaps of Logic, for he is a very good Consulting Detective, and—"

"Oh!" said Sherlock-the-Pooh.

"Oh, Sherlock!" said everybody else except Andersore.

"Thank you," growled Sherlock.

( _"As it happens," said Mycroft, interrupting me, "I **do** have something for you, Sherlock." He held out a folded piece of paper. "Oh, nothing so dire as you think. A small task, only. Take it."_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not your errand-boy, and I won't waste my time with your busywork."_

_Mycroft turned and handed the piece of paper to me, instead._

_"Oh, **dull** ," Sherlock said, rounding his shoulders._

_"You do owe me," Mycroft said pointedly, looking at me but addressing Sherlock._

_Sherlock turned to look sharply in my direction. I was about to hand the paper back to Mycroft when Sherlock shoved himself up to a seated position, balancing his elbows on his knees. "Fine," he said, still looking at me but addressing his brother. " **Fine**. I suppose I do, but don't go so far as to expect similar accommodation in future, it's only because John—"_

_"No," said Mycroft, interrupting smoothly, "I would never presume." He smiled at me. "Glad to see you're doing so well," he said to me, "and congratulations on the book. I look forward to reading it in its entirety." Sherlock made a growling sound, low in his throat. "But I suppose I ought to be going now."_

_"Yes, thank you for stopping by. A pleasure as always," Sherlock bit out._

_When the door closed behind Mycroft, Sherlock sat back against the sofa. "Go on," he said, "then we'll see what Mycroft's left for us."_ )

Later on, when they had all said good-bye and thank-you to Mycroft Robin, Sherlock-the-Pooh and Johnlet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and for a long time they were silent.

"When you wake up in the morning, Sherlock," said Johnlet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What game can we play," said Sherlock. "What do _you_ say, Johnlet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting _today_?" said Johnlet.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same thing," he said.

* * *

"And what did happen?" asked Sherlock after a moment.

"Excuse me?"

"The next morning."

I stared at him, momentarily unsure of myself.

"Hard drive, John," Sherlock said with a wink, tapping a finger to his forehead. "I don't need to keep them all in there, you know. That's why I have my blogger, dreadful titles and all. Besides," he said, "there's something to be said for a proper story, and not just a remembering."

We stared at each other for several long seconds.

"So," I said at least. "More adventures, then? Is that what you're telling me?"

Sherlock's cheek crumpled up into a smile. "Precisely, John," he said, holding out a hand for the folded piece of paper Mycroft had given me.

Sherlock took it and read it, frowning thoughtfully. "Oh," he said, then, " _Oh_ , I've underestimated him." He pushed himself to standing. "Yes, this could be quite interesting," he said, already threading his arms through the sleeves of his coat before he'd reached the door.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned to me."Ready, John?"

I shoved my feet into my shoes. "Ready when you are."

His mouth quirked up into a smile. "Good," he said. Through the open door I heard his footsteps— _bump, bump, bump_ —down the seventeen steps.

I hurried after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thanks again to Livia Carica, who has contributed the illustrations (my own favorite part of this, by far). She's promised me that she intends to make a masterpost of all her illustrations, and I'll link it everywhere when she does, but in meantime why don't you stop by her [tumblr](livia-carica.tumblr.com) and leave some love in her ask box?

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to the ever-wonderful [misanthropyray](misanthropyray.livejournal.com) for her wonderfully patient beta job/general handholding.


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